Shepherds
by saimone
Summary: Set sometime after the movie ends. When a routine mob killing goes horribly wrong for the boys, will they both walk out alive?


**Shepherds**

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***author's note*** This is not my first fic by any means, but it is my first time to write a Boondock Saints story. It's a great movie if you haven't seen it, by the way! Hope you enjoy this.

[Thoughts are in italics]

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**_Bless me Father…_**

_I am worthy of no such blessing, and yet I ask for it…no, I plead for it all the same. I fall down upon my fucking knees, O Lord, and pray you hear my cry. There are those who call me a Saint, those that see fit to rank me up with your holiest; they exalt me for what I do. And yet I am paying for what I have done…_

**_For I have sinned._**

_My sheer stupidity, my fucking pride, both are making me pay the dearest cost. I have sinned, Father. I killed my brother…or I've good as killed him. I may not have turned a gun on him myself, but what I allowed to happen, what I was too damned blind to prevent, weighs on my tainted soul like a fetter of fucking iron. _

* * * * * * *

Connor MacManus sat quietly in the dim hospital room, gazing at the motionless figure on the bed in front of him. One hand clutched tightly to the bedrail, the strain of the grip turning his knuckles white. The other hand fingered the cross that hung from his neck, as if he were trying to draw solace from the relic. Standing behind him was a nun, who came in periodically to check both the patient and his grieving brother. 

_How could this have happened?_

The good sister stared silently at Connor, looking as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. When she spoke, she spoke softly, slowly, and seemed to choose her words carefully, almost as if she were answering his unspoken question. "Perhaps, my child, this is a sign from the Almighty. The Good Book says thou shall not kill, after all. It never states thou shalt only kill those thou doth deem evil."

Connor's gaze, which had until then been resting unflinchingly on his brother, turned to stare her down. "So you're sayin,' Sister, that Murph was struck down as God's way'a provin' a point?" He shook his head with vehemence. "Never. I don't believe it."

"It's up to you, child, what you believe and what you don't. But think on this…When does it stop? When does the killing end?"

With a sigh Connor closed his eyes and thought a moment, remembering the night that he had asked their Da almost the same exact question. _How far are we gonna take this?_

"Our Da said that the question isn't how far we're to take this…" he spoke quietly, his father's words playing themselves in an endless litany in his mind. "The question really is, do we have the constitution to take it as far as is needed?"

"What if this isn't what is needed, then? Yes, you've killed low-lives…you've killed the scum of the earth, but what happens when you run out of the most vile? What do you do when you've done with the lowest of the low? Who, then, do you kill next?" She sighed and clutched at the cross around her neck. "One of the Lord's greatest gifts, my child, is the gift of choice. You can live your life and chose to be good, or you can live your life in the manner of evil. The good are saved in the end, and the evil reap what they have sown. But things are never so black and white, and sometimes those who are evil find it in themselves to repent. They turn to the light and align themselves with God…and you, my child, you and your brother both are taking away the wickeds' only chance at redemption. You are killing off a soul that has even the barest potential of doing good. And what then…"

Connor stayed silent as she spoke, and once she had finished she rose from her seat. "What then?" she repeated, touching his shoulder gently before moving out of the room, leaving him alone with his brother and his thoughts.

* * * * * * *

_--flashback--_

Connor wasn't sure if this newest hit was a mission from God or a mission from their own father, but he was sure that he didn't have time to think about such things just then. He and Murphy were currently in an abandoned warehouse picking off mobsters like shooting fish in a barrel.

But things were about to get ugly. Really, really ugly. 

Connor was distracted, finishing off two large thugs with two well-aimed shots. _Mob guys…a dime a dozen. Fucking pathetic really…_ He didn't see the third man coming up behind him, taking his time to level his gun at the unaware Irishman, with an evil smirk of triumph painted across his unsightly face.

Murphy, eyes darting around for anyone still standing, saw the gun trained on his brother and felt his insides turn cold. He was running before he consciously realized the movement, eyes fixed on the gunman who was lining up his shot.

"CONNOR!" his shouted warning and the blast from the gun rang out at the same time. Connor turned, a moment too late, his face a mask of shock and horror. Murphy launched himself at his brother with a feral cry, shielding him with his body, then choking out a gasp of agony as a solid, searing heat ripped through his chest. Against his will, his knees buckled sending his body falling towards the cold, hard concrete of the warehouse floor.

Connor was there in an instant, his gun hand automatically rising to fire a killing shot at the still-grinning thug even as his free arm wrapped tightly around his brother's lagging form. Barely taking time to notice that the gunmen went down, Connor dropped his gun with a clatter to enfold Murphy in both arms and brace the sagging weight against his own body.

Connor's normally stoic face blanched at the sight of his brother. Murphy, face chalk-white and eyes filled with silent pain, gasped for each harsh, strained breath. With effort he smiled up at Connor and wheezed out the words, "Nice… fucking…shot."

Blood…there was so much blood. Murphy's black t-shirt was clinging to him, sopping, growing more soaked as the wound continued to gush. Connor immediately put a hand to Murphy's chest to try and staunch the flow, his eyes filling with tears as his fingers were liberally stained by blood that would not cease pooling. 

"Idiot…" Connor breathed. "Fucking idiot. What the hell were you thinking?" He let released his grip on his brother, knowing he needed to figure out how to stop Murphy from bleeding to death. Connor flung his coat off and to the ground, then proceeded to rip his own black t-shirt from his body. Taking up Murphy's knife, Connor cut open his brother's bloody shirt, revealing an equally bloodied chest. The blood seemed to flow faster, as Connor wadded up his dry shirt and firmly pressed it against the streaming wound. "Fuck." Connor cursed his trembling fingers as he probed Murphy's back for an exit wound, then sighed in relief when he didn't find one. Though that meant the bullet was still lodged in his brother's body, it also meant that he wouldn't bleed to death as quickly.

Murphy attempted to rise up, only to have forceful hands gently push him back to his prone position. "Wasn't thinking," he answered, breath hissing through clenched teeth. "Didn't fucking need to."

Connor just shook his head. "I've got to get you the fuck out of here. Damn it! We need to get help, get to…to a hospital or something."

"Can't," Murphy told him.

"Can't what?" 

"Now…" It was getting harder for Murphy to form the words. "Now you're the one…not…thinking."

When he realized what his brother was getting at, Connor's eyes clenched shut in frustration. "Fuck. That's right. Hospitals ask fucking questions." He frantically thought to come up with a better solution. He swore again, loudly, when nothing came to mind. "We still need to get you out of here." 

That statement seemed to firm something up in Connor's mind, and in a frantic, flurry of motion, he moved away from Murphy to gather up their weapons, throwing all evidence of their involvement into a black bag. Then he shouldered the bag and rushed back to his brother's side. "Can you stand?" he demanded after a tense moment, worry plainly etched in his features.

Murphy thought about it, face scrunching in pain as he tested his body's mobility. "Maybe…" he replied, at length. "Give me a hand up."

Trying not to jar the injury or hurt him any further, Connor guided his twin into a sitting position. With one hand bracing his brother's back, Connor held a spray can with the other and began heavily coating the floor in a misty substance. Both brothers grimaced as the heavy, unpleasant odor of ammonia wafted into the air, overpowering the coppery scent of blood. That done Connor threw the can back into the bag, and focused his attention on Murphy once more.

"Brace yourself," he commanded his brother. "I'm going to lift you." With no further warning, Connor shouldered the bag once more, then hefted Murphy into his arms. Both men grunted at the sudden movement, as if feeling the pain as one. The shifting was too much for the wounded one, and with a gasped curse Murphy passed out, falling limp in Connor's arms.

"Fuck," Connor muttered under his breath, slightly shaking the still figure he held. Murphy didn't move. "FuckfuckfuckFUCK!" He began moving towards the back exit of the warehouse all the while muttering to his unconscious twin, "Don't worry. Don't fucking worry, all right? I'm going ta get you out of here and you're gonna be fucking fine."

There was, of course, no reply.

Minutes passed slowly…and the silence had only grown thicker. Murphy didn't regain consciousness as Connor carried him back to their van, he didn't stir as his frantic brother drove them both to a hospital run by nuns calling themselves the Sisters of Mercy, and he didn't move when doctors took his still body from Connor's arms to put him on a gurney and wheel him into surgery. 

* * * * * * *

Hours later, after two surgeries and a close brush with death, Murphy still hadn't come out of unconsciousness, even as his anxious brother perched uncompromisingly at his bedside. 

* * * * * * * 

The nun's words still rang in Connor's head, playing in an endless litany along with memories of the shooting. He clenched his eyes shut, and tried to block all thoughts from his mind.

A quiet shifting noise caught his attention, snapping Connor from his silent reverie. As he attempted to pinpoint the sound, something else made itself heard. A faint feeble whisper. "Roc says 'hi'."

Instantly, Connor's head whipped around to face the bed. Murphy lay, still as ever, eyes closed.

"What the fuck?"

As he watched, Murphy's eyes slowly opened. A small, disbelieving smile grew on Connor's face at the sight. "You heard me…" his wounded twin whispered, the words coming out with real effort.

"Roc says hi?" Connor repeated in disbelief. _The fuck?_

The barest hint of a nod. "Aye… Lean closer."

Brow furrowed in confusion, Connor did as he was told, and leaned down to hear his brother better. Murphy smiled, then reached a shaky hand up to cover Connor's mouth with his palm.

"He also says…t'give you this." With a great deal of effort, he lifted his head the scant few inches to kiss the back of the hand that covered Connor's lips. That done, he collapsed back onto the pillow with a small sigh of weary contentment. 

Connor quirked an eyebrow at the movement then forcibly lightened his tone, trying for the easy banter that he and his twin excelled in speaking. "So, that's where you've been all fucking afternoon, then? Chattin' it up on high with David fucking Della Rocco, and leavin' me here by my fucking lonesome."

His efforts earned a small snort. 

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I stepped in the path of a fucking bullet," Murphy winced. At the same time, Connor's face also twisted into a sudden grimace. "Fuck. Other than that…I feel…fine."

Talking was quickly wearing him out, but as much as Connor wanted to let him rest, there was something that he needed answered first. "Murph?"

"Hmmm?"

"You being shot…D'you think it was a sign?"

"From God?"

"Aye…who the fuck else?"

Murphy closed his eyes to think for a moment, and kept them closed for so long that it seemed as if he'd gone to sleep again. He hadn't. "A fucking sign sayin' what, exactly?"

"Damned if I know," Connor replied with a shrug. 

This whole business was starting to get to him. He was used to having the answers himself. Asking Murphy about shit like this just didn't fucking click. With a frustrated sigh, he reached into his pocket for a pack cigarettes and pulled one out; he knew he couldn't smoke while in the hospital, but holding it gave his idle hands something to do. At length he replied, "There was a nun in here earlier, and she was spouting all kinds of preachings and prayers about this all bein' a sign from the Lord sayin' we should stop with our crusade, or some fucking nonsense."

Murphy smiled tiredly. "I think if anything…" he whispered, "that I have been closer t'God today than…she has."

A real smile crossed Connor's lips for the first time in many hours. "I do believe you have a point." 

Murphy returned the smile with a weak one of his own. "If it's a sign, I think it's tellin' us just ta be more careful."

"To be more careful? That's it?"

"Aye. That and ta not just fucking follow our Da blindly in this crusade," He breathed in again, and smiled a little wider. "We're shepherds, after all," he reminded Connor in a whisper, still smiling. "…not blind sheep." 

Connor rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, and pretended to swipe at his prone brother. Murphy laughed silently at the annoyed look on Connor's face, then let his eyes drift closed. After a few moments his breathing evened out into the familiar rhythm that Connor knew as well as he knew his own heartbeat. 

Feeling a heaven-sent calm washing over him, Connor stared down at the sleeping man, knowing with divine certainty that things would indeed be alright. He reached out, then, with his left hand, to clasp his twin's right one. Murphy was right--for once. "And shepherds we shall be…" Connor told his sleeping form, before giving his hand a firm squeeze.

_Veritas_and_ Aequitas…_

Truth and justice stared silently back at him, affirming his unheard promise. 


End file.
